I am back. Really now.

Lax does not quite cover it. I've been absent for eight months. But now I'm back.

So. To summarise my entire life for the past eight months:

• We really did go to Paris. In February. Ben, Sophie, Si and I. It was fantastic. So now we're going to Madrid in October. Hurray for part-time jobs, that's all I can say.
• My brother got selected for the South of England U-13s, and then the England U-13 tournament in Taunton. So I'm not a poor misguided fool, led on blindly by sisterly love. Good news, good news.
• Philosophy. Still rocks.
• Leeds Festival!!!! We're going!!! Next week!!! I am beyond excited. Best thing ever. Partly because music has been great this year. Which leads me to:
• Cold War Kids! Jack Penate! Kate Nash! The Hold Steady! CSS! Klaxons! We Are Scientists! Glorious musical joy! Though, naturally, I'm still firmly in the Buckley boat.
• AS Levels! Today was results day, aaannnnddddd... if you're counting General Studies (which, let's face it, not many people do) then I got 5 A's. Including 100% in English. I've got a History query (one markedly lower module score), but in the grand scheme even this isn't much of a problem, because I still have an A even with (hopefully) freak score. So yay for education, though I'm not letting Miss XXX claim this victory, oh no.
• Passed my driving test. First time :)
• I'm on hoilday for another few weeks, then it's back to the grind.

But I really am back.

"You said I must eat so many lemons, 'coz I am so bitter,

I said I'd rather be with your friends, mate, 'coz they are much fitter..."

We're Still Hopeful...

"...And, when I was at university, I actually used to buy this CD and give it to random people, just to make sure they heard it."

"Right. So you're telling us that, as an impoverished member of the Irish working classes, you could just afford to buy copies of Grace and hand them out? Like sweets? I think you've been exaggerating, sir..."

- Yep. McIrish is a massive Buckley fan (like me). Very, very strange. We got to experience first hand his (admittedly rather good) musical tastes as part of our final lesson of the term, an enormous music quiz. And of these there have been many, this week. This, however, was the best. It ended up being incredibly competitive between Harry and I, glancing at each other and demanding "have you got it then?". We are both fans of Radiohead, The Cure, Pixies and the Manics, so there was only a point in it, in the end.

And now it is the end of term. Two glorious weeks sans KSF. I'd like to quickly thank everyone for the prezzies. Esp. Ben; I succumbed and and unwrapped the CD-shaped one as soon as I got home; now I'm infuriating everyone with Yard of Blonde Girls. I applaud him for crawling across the floors of HMV to find my heart's desire.

Note: What has happened to my national team, the soi-disant champions? I am most disappointed. Absolutely everyone underperformed; the only exceptions being the ever-steady Hoggard, an increasingly-assured Ian Bell and, my Personal Jesus (see below- and hopefully not too much of an insult to his religion) King Monty.The Sikh of Tweak. Love him, love him, love him.

That aside, I am feeling very Christmassy at last. I think it is the general good-will of my teachers, who have taken it upon themselves to demonstrate restraint in the giving of holiday homework. That and being in the best form in the world ever. We played racing nuns at break (thanks Gemma!), when we weren't being bear-hugged by Sam.

So I have the next couple of weeks to philosophise and read some Dickens. There is, as ever, no rest for the wicked.

- "Are you kidding? That's not my Jesus. Jordan dressed as a girl. He's my Jesus."

- "You pick your own Personal Jesus..."
- "Ah. Well done, Sir. Nice connection to the music round, well done..."

Even in this world of lies, you're still hopeful,

Very sexy; okay, okay...

Christmas Cheer

Such wilt thou be to me, who must,

Like th' other foot, obliquely run;

Thy firmness makes my circle just,

And makes me end where I begun.

- Isn't that glorious? I'm reading John Donne. At first it was a bid to educate myself in poetry; now it's turned into an obsession with the love lyric, in every shape: a Wyard, or a Byron, or even a Cohen:

Your faith was strong but you needed proof

You saw her bathing on the roof

Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew you

And she tied you to her kitchen chair

And She broke your throne and she cut your hair

And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah.

The pen, as ever, is mightier than the sword.

But sometimes it is more fun to dance than to write. So last night we danced a lot; we drank and were merry (some of us a little too merry, perhaps) at Kirstin's vodka-soaked Christmas party. Highlights of which included: Ben insisting he was in no way, shape or form drunk. Then challenging Gemma to a dance-off, suggesting that maybe those shots had indeed gone to his head. Jenny Don't be Hasty. Repeatedly. Encouraging some dirty dancing and slurred singing of dubious lyrics. Gemma, generally. Kathryn mother-henning Claire: "Come on then, come with me. Lets get some water, shall we?". We know how to spend a Saturday night.

Hmmm. I hope the boys all got home OK. They were quite vague when I saw them last, prompting Sophie, when we gave her a lift home, to stare dreamily out of the window and say:

"You know, I'm half-expecting to see Lewis giving Richard a firemans lift home."

Then, this moring, I went to work. And was faced with carol singers, bizarre, flashing Christmas hats and a million Kesgrave residents buying spirits and stirring meories of a blissed-out Ben and a teary Claire. And then Yasmin came over to talk, and everything was stirred again. I love parties.

Only a day and a half of school left. For this whole year. How time flies.

Wait. What?

"Wait. Asleep? You fell asleep?"

"Yeah... And then I woke up, about three hours later - "

"Three hours? And he didn't notice?"

What I love about my friends, what I really love, is that they can still, on occasion, shock me with unspeakably bizarre stories. That, and the fact that we can have a good old bitch every now and then which can be completely disregarded afterwards. And so, in celebration of friends, French and the joys of having part-time jobs...

We're going to Paris! And, for a change, it's more than a pipe dream. It's booked, paid for, and Sophie is probably setting her sights on new shoes especially for the trip as I type.

This is all part of the new, interesting student plan. Which entails getting off our arses and spending our hard-earned wages on something slightly more out-there than a new Topshop collection. Although, I must confess, the latter is rather appealing. But our parents are in on it, saying it's about time we were more cultured and interesting, and hopefully we will, in the future "meet interesting people and lead cultured lives". I can't help thinking that this is slightly optimistic, but, hey. If it means I'm going to get a ParisPass and some spending money for Christmas then I'm happy.

And spending is really so much more fun than saving.

Par contre, there are some slightly darker feelings lurking at the back of my mind. All of which stem from our unusually frank lunchtime chats. Today we were discussing who we'll keep in touch with when we go to uni (some surprises), the obsessions of those we know and Sophie's need for some, ahem, "stabilisers".

You've got to love her.

And the Christmas tally, thus far, goes:

Good things: Parties! Presents - esp. Ben's (he knows I love Buckley). Hours off to be spent debating the "meaning of life" (McDreamy vs. McSteamy, shoes, bizarre films, Pride and Prejudice etc.). Christmas dinner. And, peace and goodwill to all, I suppose.

Bad things: Christmas fucking carols. Santa not being real. Anticipation being better than the real thing. Stress headaches finding presents for everyone. Gorging oneself full of selection box to the point of death.

So it's pretty even. Hell, I think I actually like it more than I don't. (Must have an inner optimist)

Cricket. Bloody cricket. I am ashamed of my home nation. Bring back Monty, that's what I say.

Etcha-Sketches for my Sweetheart...

It's nearly Christmas. How unfortunate.

I say this, because whilst I genuinely do believe it to be overrated, I've just got home from a most tedious shift at work, where they have started playing Christmas songs. On loop. For hour upon torturous hour. By the time I was finally allowed to leave, I was ready to punch all festive pre-Christmas revellers and spit on their mince pies. Of course, being the model employee I am (sometimes), I didn't. But the impulse was strong.

Elsewhere. Yesterday afternoon I ventured out into the chilly Ipswich air to watch a bit of rugby. I am still utterly clueless as to what the rules actually are (to me it seems like wrestling, but outdoors), but surprisingly I was entertained. Probably something to do with hot older boys in tight shorts on the other pitch, but whatever. I was there, I was sort of a supportive sister. Paid my dues.

There was also the welcome "Colly, we love/adore/worship you; you make up for the lack of Monty, you're a good ol' northern underdog" conversation. It's all been said already, but a double hundred? And pissing off ol' Warney? Hell, he's my hero too.

"Shane...I think I'm pregnant..." Funny. Very funny.

Ben is getting me Sketches for my Sweetheart... for Christmas, thus elevating himself to the 'most valuable friend' position. I'm so mercenary. But he knows it, and still he's my friend. So now the search begins to find him something really impressive. I can feel a Christmas stress migrane coming on.

McDreamy, McSteamy, and other things

Busy(ish) week.

Firstly - and rather inexplicably - we won Quiz Night. This is in spite of the fact that we were a) up against the women that knew everything (Mrs. F and Miss H) b) called Team Sophie, when everyone else was called something very witty (or thereabouts) and c) doing a lot of guessing. It was quite interesting to watch our transformations from easy-going, Freddo-eating students to sulky, competitive crazy people in the space of a few rounds.

Then, Sophie proved that she was as good a hostess as she was a bad quiz team-namer. We all skulked (or tottered, as was the case with Gem and I) to hers on Saturday night for a Chinese and Silent Hill. The latter left us bemused:-

"Why are you looking in a drawer? She's a person, not a pencil."

And I'm inclined to believe that we freaked poor Richard out slightly with our huge capacities for girly gossip, and our 'secret' eyebrow-raising language:

Him: "OK, I'm right here."

And, of course, we debated McDreamy vs. McSteamy. Which is so stupid, because McDreamy is not only hot, he is an actual nice person. A nice, hot brain surgeon with neither a mercenary streak nor a desire to betray his best friend. And McSteamy has weird facial hair. Yet opinion still remains divided. Obviously, my friends have various mental disorders.

And now I am very, very tired, because when I got home Matt and I decided to stay up until the wee hours watching England rebuild their innings, after what can only be called a horrendous beginning. Firstly: I. Want. Monty. And secondly, what is wrong with Harmison? Meh.

But it was never going to be easy.

"What would I do for a million pounds? Oh, anything, really."

"Me too. Does that make us easy?"

Word association

"But it's an emergency! An actual emergency. Sophie's... having a breakdown."

"Right. And, ahem, you're comforting her."

"Yes."

"So why are you still talking about bloody boys?"

I am, apparently, spending too much time on the phone. Not true, although the amount of times "get-off-the-land-line-you-have-a-mobile" is yelled in my house might suggest otherwise...

Aha! I went to see Borat! And it is just so funny. In a strange, cringeworthy way, but so funny nevertheless. The boring, boring people who bang on about how offensive it is should just take a moment to observe the genius that is Sasha Baron Cohen. He makes jokes that no other person would (or could) dream of creating. And I love Borat's misogyny. It is the perfect antidote to those sombre, holier-than-thou-art feminists who like to talk (and talk) about how repressed women are without ever trying to do anything, and blaming it on the men. Some of these women forget how bloody lucky we are in countries like Britain to have that equality and the opportunites that we do. Instead of tutting that less women than men are in the highest-paid jobs, perhaps they should get on a plane to the dark places in the world where women are routinely mutilated, dominated and oppressed.

But I digress. Everyone should see Borat. It is a brilliant film.

I was reading a feature today about how people associate single words to their friends and family. Strange, I thought, that relationships can be so complex but we can sum up the people we know in a word. Impossible, even. But no. So here are mine, a single word, or thereabouts, for each person. But in the spirit of harmony (and not sticking my neck out) I won't name names:

Scared. Hilarious. Sweet. Most intelligent, but most hidden. Bravado. All heart. A tough, tough cookie. The more you know, the better you like. Pretentious. Fun. Self-assured. Pensive. Emo!!! Fearless. Too cool for school. Really good looking. In love. A chip off the old block. An idiot.

But collectively, they are perfectly balanced.